


oh you and me here underneath the mistletoe

by carentans



Category: Band of Brothers
Genre: Everyone is STUPID in Love, F/M, George Thinks He Knows Everything, Happy Endings For All, Joe is Dumb In Love, M/M, Uh Oh! Guess Who's Back With Fluff!, mistletoe mishaps, obligatory christmas fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-13
Updated: 2019-12-13
Packaged: 2021-02-26 05:07:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,850
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21778033
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/carentans/pseuds/carentans
Summary: George thinks a little mistletoe makes the world sweeter, and Joe's the fool that indulges him.
Relationships: Carwood Lipton/Ronald Speirs, George Luz/Joseph Toye, Johnny Martin/Bull Randleman, Kitty Grogan/Harry Welsh, Lewis Nixon/Richard Winters
Comments: 3
Kudos: 36





	oh you and me here underneath the mistletoe

**Author's Note:**

  * For [currahees](https://archiveofourown.org/users/currahees/gifts).



> to lovely, lovely lily 
> 
> and YES :/ here's another m/m even tho i promised i wouldn't write it anymore, but uh oh! here's 6k of stupid fluff

“Come _on_ ,” George whined. Then, he leaned back, tugging at Joe’s hand in an attempt to get him off the couch.

“Don’t think so.” 

He was close to getting Joe up, but Joe silently fought back, only increasing his desperation.

“Just do it by yourself,” he suggested.

George slipped a little, his socked feet sliding dangerously on the carpet, making him lean further towards the ground, and Joe nearly gave up on the game. 

If he pulled a little too much, he’d certainly brain himself.

“Where’s your Christmas spirit?” George asked, sounding far too cheerful while being so close to injury. 

At least one of them was having fun.

George readjusted his grip, now using two hands to pull with his entire weight. 

“Why can't we just go to the party to drink?” 

He received a grin in response, a self-assured gesture in which George knew he had the winning move.

“It’ll be fun,” he said, much like he did before enacting all of his little schemes. 

Joe was certainly skeptical. George always wanted to rope him into something that he would have preferably stayed far away from, and he was sure this was no different.

George huffed. “Come on, Joe.” 

The tv continued on in the background, marching mindlessly through the show he had been trying to catch up on before being interrupted. It always seemed like George was barging in, finding a way to him no matter what, and Joe always let him. 

“For me?” 

George’s voice was a lot softer now, but it was genuine, like Joe was the only person in the world he wanted to do this with. 

When Joe looked up, catching sight of those puppy brown eyes, he couldn’t help but sigh. 

_Anything_. 

George was alive in a way that was intoxicating, filled with energy and excitement. Somehow, _something_ about him had convinced Joe, promised if he followed him, he would be all he ever needed. 

“Fine,” Joe conceded. 

He lit up with glee, and Joe stood up, orchestrating his crash into the floor. 

George had overcompensated, relying too much on his own strength and most likely knew that Joe would betray him in such a way. Yet, he’d continued on, putting more tension between them until Joe snapped the line. 

He groaned dramatically where he lay, splayed out on the carpet, but one hand still held Joe’s.

“Come on,” Joe mimicked, stealing his pep. Their embrace shifted; Joe adding his other hand and tugging him back to his feet. 

George was methodical in his relaying of the plan, jumping to an explanation than lingering any further on what had just happened. 

“And what happens if it doesn’t work out?” Joe questioned, poking at the rather large, obvious hole in the idea.

“What’s the worst that can happen?” His words were waved away. “It’s just mistletoe.” 

##

The targets were Lipton and Speirs. 

Joe was skeptical that either one of them would be so easily fooled by a fake holiday decoration to actually admit their feelings for one another, but George was having none of his “negativity.” 

George was dreadfully tired of Lipton’s quiet loneliness. 

While everyone else experimented with romance and relationships, bringing in temporary and flimsy additions to their group, Lipton never had. He’d always been the one constant while everyone had their successes and failures, but these supposed feelings George sensed never materialized.

Lipton never complained or watched jealously from the sidelines. There’d never been any sort of a late night confession, an out of character drunken plea, for romance. 

He seemed satisfied and unhurried, like he knew his perfect relationship would manifest without prompting.

And yet, George was certain of Lipton’s supposed sadness. He deemed himself the perfect friend - and savior - and put himself to the task of bringing romance into Lipton’s life. 

He knew all, apparently, and coming with that, he knew the perfect solution came in the form of a cheesy holiday tradition. 

Sure, it was fairly obvious to anyone that there were some unspoken feelings between Lipton and Speirs. They _lived_ together, seemingly more from Lipton’s kind heart and Speirs’ “temporary” stay in town that resulted in him never leaving, but no one could fault them for having feelings develop. 

(It was pretty obvious that there were _plenty_ of unspoken feelings among their sprawling group of friends, some of which had successfully created relationships, while others continued to go unmentioned, but that was neither here nor there.

Honestly, Joe refused to dwell, to get caught up in some fantasy that would never happen.

He would listen to George and help him on his quest to give someone else a taste of happiness, all while completely ignoring his own want for a little of that happiness.

But Joe was fine. It was all _fine_.)

“A little to the left,” George said, his voice loud and steady, a far cry from anything sneaky.

Joe shuffled a step over, carrying George with him. 

He could hear his quiet, cheerful humming from where George sat above him on his shoulders and wished he would just hurry up. The mistletoe had to be tacked just above the door frame, and yet George was making a whole ordeal out of positioning it _just_ right. 

He swayed, reaching further from their combined center of balance, and Joe grabbed his legs tighter. “Hurry up,” Joe encouraged, shifting his weight impatiently. 

“This has got to be perfect. Nobody wants a shitty first kiss,” he got in reply. 

George continued about his merry way, oblivious to the very real possibility of being caught in the act. To him, there was no hurry, no rush, and Lipton and Speirs returning home from their unspecified trip out was was of little concern as compared to finding the center of the doorframe.

“Plus, it’s not like _we_ can get beneath this, or else we’d have to kiss,” George said, matter-of-fact. 

Joe rolled his eyes, biting back some response that there was no mistletoe police waiting to jump those who broke sacred holiday laws. By now, he knew better than to argue, or else George would still be on shoulders, and they’d be bickering well into the night, their plan be damned. 

George was stubborn, self-assured in his own ways, and no amount of reasoning from Joe would ever make an impact.

So, Joe held onto his legs as George reached absurdly far to place the mistletoe in the ideal place. 

He returned to his humming, working just slow enough that any sort of further complaining from Joe would only ruin his productivity all together and bring this operation to a failing halt.

“Maybe we should put up more than just this one.”

“We haven’t even put this one up yet.” 

“We have a greater chance at success if we have more than one up,” George argued. 

Joe made a noise, maybe to argue with him or maybe to prevent himself from going insane, but managed to reply without dropping George on his head and giving up all together. “Neither one of us will have the opportunity for more if you don’t _hurry up_.” 

George seemed unsatisfied with the answer, always ready to talk a thousand words on a subject that needed none but was cut short at the sound of someone coming up the steps. 

He hastily slapped the mistletoe up, throwing his perfectionism and caution to the wind. 

“Fu- _uck_ ,” he began, word sliced by the way Joe hurried away, nearly misplacing him all together. 

There were few hiding places in the hallway of the building and the sight of an empty handed George Luz was always cause for concern, so they hurried for the other set of stairs at the far end of the hall. 

They made it a few doors down, encouraged by the growing sound of footsteps and quiet conversation, before George made some half - assed attempt to get off Joe’s shoulders, resulting in a catastrophic stumble. 

“Fuckin’ _ace_ , George,” Joe grumbled, shoving at him from where they lay.

Fortunately, George was spry, adept at squeezing his way out of tight situations and was back on his feet without hassle and tugged Joe along to their hiding place.

George shushed him before he could continue to bemoan, pointing at their two victims rapidly approaching their trap. 

Both Lipton and Speirs had their hands full with bags of supplies for the party later that night, and they stopped near the door to shuffle for their keys. Speirs passed over some bags to free his keys and went ahead, unlocking the door and pushing it open. 

Right as he stepped in, a bag toppled from Lip’s hold, the contents within bursting to freedom. 

“Hey, thanks!” Lip called after Speirs, but he didn’t sound too torn up about it.

Speirs’ response was too quiet to hear but likely just as playful, causing Lip to laugh as he set the rest of his bags down just inside the door. 

The noise alerted their neighbors across the hall, and soon enough, Skip had jumped his way into the mix. 

“Geez, Lip, easier way to get my attention than this,” Skip said, cheerfully chasing down cans. 

“Guess I just missed you.” Lip said dryly, but followed up with, “How’ya been, Skip?” 

“It’s been good,” he nodded, placing the cans into the bag Lip offered. “How about - hey! Look at that!” 

Skip’s excitedly pointed at the mistletoe, clearly having a better eye than the distracted targets. 

“Oh, Jesus Christ,” George muttered behind him, and Joe sighed, agreeing. 

“Well, it’s _only_ fair! What do you say?” Skip grinned. “To a great pal,” he cheered, smacking an exaggerated kiss on Lip’s cheek. 

“Thanks, Skip. And thanks for the help, too.”

They parted their two ways and said their goodbyes, and then the doors were shut, Skip’s continued laughter carrying down the hallway. 

“Didn’t see that one coming.”

Joe sighed again, shoulder bumping against his as he started downstairs.

“We were close, Joe! Who knew that was going to happen!” 

“Only with you, George.”

“You have to admit, that _was_ kind of cute.” 

Joe had gotten to the landing, ready to finish the flight of stairs and turned to look up at George. “You coming?” 

George didn’t have to be asked twice, hoping down two at a time until he was back at his side. 

“Don’t worry. I’m not finished yet,” he promised. "Just need to put on my party sweater."

##

Someone had turned off the festive music and switched over to Speirs’ record player. 

His record collection sprawled, organized by genres and kept away from prying eyes and wandering fingers. It rarely made an appearance at parties; it was always far too serious for the mood, but there was something about the warm glow from the Christmas lights or the feeling of something missing on a late, chilly night with too much alcohol and lovers stuck with nothing better to do. 

The hum and scratch made him feel more tired than he should after a few glasses of whatever mystery drink concoction George crafted, but it convinced the couples around him to abandon their cozy spots for the makeshift dance floor amid the furniture. 

Nixon was just about the only person, besides Lipton, who could get away with messing in Speirs’ things, and he probably used this music as an opportunity to make a moment, to create some romance for a grand gesture.

He built his whole relationship on these magnificent, but quiet, gestures, and while other people weren’t really his concern, there always seemed to be someone else that benefited from the change of music and pace, too.

And no one was complaining about that. 

Maybe Doc started, his mouth opening to form that slow “Edward...”, but Babe gotten him up, the two of them mixing up their steps from two made - up melodies. Babe’s cheeks were pink from the alcohol or the love, and Doc barely blinked an eye at the way Babe trotted all over his feet. 

Kitty marveled over the music, like she’d personally just brought it brand new from the record store for its first listen. Welsh spun her around, and her poofy skirt fluttered accordingly. When they came back together, hands grasped close, they looked like living history, from decades ago, revived by the melody.

Webster and Liebgott refused to be swayed by the music. 

Their silent, daily argument had devolved into arms crossed, gazes diverted. They were still close enough, though, that if one of them swallowed their pride and reached a hand out, their dance could be literal instead of alone. 

“Love this song,” George murmured at his elbow. 

He had barely a sip left in his cup, and his eyes sparkled like he took it upon himself to heartily inspect his own cocktail (and would probably regret doing so in the morning).

At Joe’s raised brow, George huffed and finished what was left in his cup. Freeing his hands, he grabbed Joe’s and tugged, intentions clear. 

“You’ve never heard this song,” Joe replied. 

Before he could take George’s hand up in some semblance of a ballroom pose, George moved in, wrapping his arms around his middle and sighing heavily on his chest. 

“No one said you had to drink ten shots of tequila, either.” 

It was hard to tell if George was more clingy and physical than normal, but this wasn’t the first time Joe had encountered Drunk George. He’d gotten used to the way that George insisted on taking up his space (and his thoughts and his _life_ ). He just seemed to _fit_ there, and truthfully, Joe never minded.

So, he just wrapped his arms around George and followed the way he swayed to the music.

“Wasn’t,” George said, muffled, “shots... A solo cup. I had to prove a point.”

“Uh huh,” Joe said to that, unconvinced, but he was hardly going to rationalize with Drunk George.

Drunk George - impossibly - liked to hear himself talk more than Sober George. If prompted, he could go off on these curiously specific rambles that lacked coherence or an ending. Facts or reason never bothered Drunk George because he had a talent of bullshitting like he’d researched his statements for a decade before revealing these truths.

At least, right there, he could keep an eye on George.

George had a proclivity for trouble that strengthened according to his inebriation. They were in an enclosed setting, with only a few rooms to explore, as opposed to a bar of absolute strangers and the sweat and adrenaline of a proper dance floor, but that hadn’t stopped George from indulging in his own recklessness. 

In this distraction, a few more people joined into the quiet swaying of the dance floor, including Lipton and Speirs talking quietly as they casually danced. 

George had his back to them, their dancing lost to his consciousness, and Joe was grateful. Had he realized, he’d find his way between them, attempting to push them together for some sort of magical moment instead of waiting for that special coincidence he was _certain_ would happen beneath the mistletoe.

One song ended and faded to another led by a sultry tenored woman crooning about love. George attempted to hum along, but fortunately, his errors were caught in the fabric of Joe’s sweater. 

He could just carry on like he was the woman singing in the booth, oblivious to the room or his own nonsense while Joe kept him upright. 

“Mistletoe,” Joe heard Winters say between a verse and chorus. 

When he looked over, the couple had stopped dancing, stuck beneath the decoration.

“I know how you just _hate_ breaking rules,” Nixon grinned, as if they needed prompting.

George gasped, grabbing no one’s attention but Joe’s. “Mistletoe!” he remarked, thirty seconds late. 

While festive and sweet, it was hardly the kiss they were looking for. 

“Another time,” Joe consoled quietly and watched Winters pluck the mistletoe from its hiding place in the paper chain decoration overhead.

George readjusted, pressing his other cheek to Joe’s sweater. “Don’t worry. Wasn’t the only mistletoe I hid tonight.” 

“Huh. That’s pretty smart.” 

George made like he might protest the implication of being usually empty-headed, but he yawned instead, clinging closer. 

##

Chocolate dipped pretzels had been unearthed in the kitchen, and Joe took advantage of the party’s lack of knowledge to take and take, and well, take just a few more. 

He grabbed just one last handful once he saw the bottom of the plate peeking through and escaped temptation by returning to the living room. 

George, the little mooch, fought for the pretzels as soon as he sat down, and it just didn’t seem fair to deny a drunk more carbs, so he relented. 

“Web finally convinced Lieb to dance,” George informed. 

He wondered how George knew what was going on in another room even though he never left the couch. The music hummed on, not even close to scratching to the end, but George decided he felt seasick so they abandoned the dance floor. 

“Please,” Kitty’s voice broke through, but it was less a plea than an informed instruction. “Oh! Here’s lovely.” 

She brought along a handful of stragglers into the room, but she had no problem with the attention or walking her sharp heels on the carpet. 

“Here - and actually try, yeah?” She said, grabbing Welsh’s phone from his pocket and passing it to Nixon. 

They settled in front of the fireplace, moving into each other for some photos to mark the evening. They weren’t serious with their smiles for very long, Welsh having whispered something to her that had her relaxing, lighting up with laughter. 

George munched on the last pretzel from where he lay against his arm, caught up in watching the photos. His attention was easy after a few drinks, and they were just a few feet away, grabbing the garland off the mantle and trying their cheesiest poses. 

“Stop it!” Kitty swatted Welsh’s hands away from yet another inappropriate pose. 

Welsh shifted around, and Kitty laughed through the process of fending off his wayward intentions. 

“Jesus, how many photos do you want?” Nixon complained. 

Joe didn’t blame him; he’d rather be off doing _anything_ else than be subjected to Kitty and Welsh’s nonsensical photoshoot that was seemingly lasting far too long. 

“Don’t you dare stop shooting!” Kitty warned. “You owe me, Nix. That was my favorite sweater you ruined.”

That seemed to convince him, and Nixon stayed with the camera. Whether or not what Nixon did was truly horrendous, Kitty certainly had a way to threaten that made people listen. 

It hardly seemed right to ever be on her bad side. She was nothing less than kind and sweet and dangerously funny, but it made sense why her and Welsh ended up together. Kitty was a fighter and didn’t appreciate anyone talking over her or trying to find her battles. 

They were a little more structured after that, Kitty directing a few shots appropriate enough to be sent to family, but nothing ever lasted long around here. 

“There’s some hats in the kitchen,” George piped up.

Nixon (and Joe, to a lesser extent) groaned at George’s suggestion. 

Welsh hurried off to retrieve the props, which had Kitty celebrating his return in the obnoxious, jingling elf hat.

“Want to meet Santa’s Little Helper?” Welsh asked. 

Joe was unsure if Welsh was truly terrible at delivering pickup lines, or if he’d simply had enough alcohol to make the exaggeration funny.

George booed, and Nixon shook his head, giving his disapproval without a word. 

Kitty tried to protest but already started to laugh, only encouraging him further. 

“How about you jingle my bells? Or let me in your chimney tonight.” 

“Oh, God. My what?” She asked through hiccuped giggles, wiping carefully at her face once she tilted her chin up. “My mascara, shit.” 

“C’mon, baby, let’s both be naughty -“

“Harry, stop,” Nixon tried. 

“- save Santa the trip.” 

“Wait,” Kitty interrupted, quieting his pickup lines by covering his mouth. “Look at that. Mistletoe.” 

She’d spotted it on the string of lights draped over the television, and they simply weren’t the sort of couple to pass on public affection. 

“Jesus,” Nixon groaned again, turning away just as quickly as he could. 

Welsh swept Kitty into his arms, dipping her low and planting a smooch. 

Maybe if they’d stopped there, it could have been a nice moment. The romance of the fireplace crackling and the dramatic dip might have made for a picture they both adored, but neither seemed to know when to stop.

Their innocence quickly dissolved into something worse. 

Welsh returned her to her feet, the two of them locked together, quite possibly getting close to ripping off each others’ clothes without ever stopping their kissing. 

“You.” Joe said, shooting a look at George as he was forced to abandon the refuge of the living room. “You did this.” 

“Hey,” George whined, following just a few steps after him. “How the hell was I supposed to know the heterosexuals would find it?” 

He paused, deliberating on his protest and shook his head.

“Okay. Maybe,” he said before his voice took on a whiny tone. “The hets are always up to something. But it’s not _my_ fault they ruin everything.” 

George’s constant drama and over-the-top explanations shouldn’t have had Joe lingering in his accusations. He shouldn’t have felt _guilty_ about teasing George because this ridiculous plan he was so passionate about just wasn’t working out. 

_That_ wasn’t fair, and if Joe wanted to use these feelings to justify his dramatized frustration, then he _would_. 

“And,” Joe said, disappointed. 

He was eager to brush past his own thoughts on the subject, how everything always seemed to revolve back to George. He nodded towards the kitchen, though, silently affirming his want for George to follow. 

“There’s no more pretzels left.” 

##

“Fuck!” Perconte shouted, voice chased by a chorus of smacking lips and kissy noises. 

“You know the rules, Perco!”

“What’s a little kiss between friends, Frank?”

“I don’t want to kiss any of you idiots. Don’t you dare come near me, Heffron. If you put your lips on me, I swear to God!”

There was clattering in the kitchen that meant a fight was very likely to break out. 

There had yet to be any sort of a situation during their gathering, and it seemed as though Perconte was about to change that by defending his own honor with his fists and maybe a Christmas decoration or two. 

“Who the _fuck_ keeps putting mistletoe up?”

Joe shot a pointed look across the room, where George had taken to lounging in front of the heater, eyes closed while the record spun nearby, blissfully immune to the happenings.

No one seemed to be too suspicious of them. 

Either that, or they’d just grown used to the mischief constantly abound amongst friends, and sometimes, that just meant having to give your pal a little kiss for holiday’s sake. 

The party was winding down. Too much alcohol had been consumed, the best snacks had been gobbled up, and the music had been danced to. 

All in all, the festive celebration had done its job in inciting holiday cheer, and everyone, save for Lipton and Speirs, would get to go home knowing they didn’t have to clean up anything but themselves.

Lip had unknowingly served George a perfect situation by deciding to host, and yet, they hadn’t been successful in their mission.

“Just one little one, Frank. Come on over here! It’s for Christmas!” Babe said.

The tension in the kitchen only built, so much so it slunk into their room, interrupting the poetry and warmth from the record player like a bad needle. 

“Don’t think I won’t,” Perconte warned, followed by a generous _smack,_ and Babe’s whimpering retreat. “Who’s next?” 

Perconte’s fire refused to be extinguished, and his defense called for an audience. 

It got Joe out of his chair, pushed him towards the doorway where a few of the other guys had taken position to watch the events unfold. The night had been tame, the troublemakers too caught up in encouraging each other’s drunkenness and strip poker had only claimed one man’s dignity (Malarkey). 

Seemingly, the universe knew to right this curious _wrong_ , and a cheap decoration was just the explosive power needed for a meltdown. 

Perconte had a rubber spatula gripped tightly in his hand, cornered against the counter above which the mistletoe hung innocently from a string. 

“I’ll do it, O’Reilly!” He said, swinging wildly and ignoring O’Keefe’s whining correction. “Don’t care if you want a _brownie_. I want normal fucking friends!” 

“What friends, Frank?” 

“Fuck off, George!” The spatula left his hand, soaring lazily across the kitchen. Had he been less drunk, Joe might have been concerned it would have hit _him_ on its journey to its target. 

“Close!” George called. He was just as bright and spontaneous as his sudden appearance behind Joe, not one to be left out when the action got interesting.

“Just a little kiss, Perco,” Bull interrupted, walking freely through the kitchen. 

He was hardly intimidated by Perconte or his assortment of quivering kitchenware, but ever the mediator, found himself the only one capable of stopping the worst to come. 

Bull got to the offending location, swatting Perconte aside with little regard for his bravado. 

The mistletoe on a string was no match for Bull. It was well within reach, nearly knocking him in the head, and one little tug brought the game to an end. 

“No more kissin’ allowed,” he announced, raising the mistletoe up in his hand like a small victory. 

“Uh, Bull?” Perconte said. 

“Shut it, Frank,” Martin hissed, but it was unmistakable the way his cheeks darkened. 

Bull’s movement through the kitchen had broken the crowd, and with him came Martin, never straying more than a few footsteps away. Bull’s hand lingered in the air above them, making an unlikely pair likely.

“The rules are the rules, John.” His words were quiet, and Bull shared a smile, only brightening further as he received a small nod from Martin.

The two kissed, simple, before everyone else in the kitchen broke the quiet moment - some laughter, some cheers and applause - and faded back to the way things were before. 

“Huh,” George muttered quietly, thoughtful.

Their friends had scattered again, relocating drinks and scooping up what was left of the food on the counters, lost in chatter. Joe still stayed in the doorway, and George’s hand lingered on his arm. 

“Guess some good things can happen along the way.” 

Bull and Martin still hadn’t quite parted, too lost in whatever moment had just been created. It felt wrong to continue staring, like he was intruding, so Joe turned away, looking back at George. 

“Okay. Who _else_ are we pairing up tonight?”

##

George was spying. 

That in itself wasn’t surprising, especially since they were (hopefully) nearing an end of an elaborate secret plot. 

It was the fact that he was lurking just inside the first bedroom-turned-office, just barely from the light. So, when Joe started his way down the hallway towards the bathroom, he hadn’t been expecting a hand to desperately pull him from view. 

“The _fu_ -” He began.

“Shh!” He got in return. 

George was far too drunk to realize his own volume, and Joe almost felt like he had to shush him just to save some decency. He still clung to Joe’s sweater, and he warily checked their surroundings to see if they had been compromised.

He kept still, away from the light of the hallway. 

Truly, George made a terrible spy. He could spin an impersonation without a second thought and had the confidence required, but that came with its flaws. His presence and personality commandeered attention, and he had a terrible time trying to keep quiet. 

He’d made a good spot in this empty room to stay from view, but it wasn’t sustainable. Everytime he took a look, he made himself a target in the hallway.

His only saving grace was the fact that the rest of the apartment could barely stand without staggering, much less spot the way George was darting around.

“Good?” He asked.

George gave a dramatic sigh and leaned back against the door. “For now.” He stared at Joe, hard. “Do you _want_ to ruin all of our hard work?”

Joe raised his hands, surrendering. “Forgive me,” he said flatly. 

“We’re close, Joe. Really.” 

“Lip and Speirs aren’t even around here.” 

Joe was sure George would have loved to make a big show out of proving him wrong, but since they were trying to be inconspicuous, he settled for another huff. “They’re not here... _yet_ ,” he corrected.

This sort of waiting game could be played day and night for the next month, all without the promise of catching Lipton and Speirs in the same close position. 

Contrary to George’s assumption about him, Joe liked to think he had some sort of a life outside of work, and trailing Lipton and Speirs for a split-second perfect timing, to jump out and hope for that _ah-ha!_ moment was _not_ how he’d like to spend his time.

George tugged on his sweater, directing him to follow his lead. 

“Okay, look,” he whispered, and Joe peaked down the hallway over George’s shoulder. “Speirs has been waiting at Lip’s door for a while. Don’t care that he never went in. But when Lip comes out?” George glanced back at him. “Watch out for falling mistletoe.” 

They returned to the safety of their hiding place. Maybe George had grown used to his skepticism because he led with his pride instead of waiting for questions, launching into an explanation. 

“It’s simple. Lip opened his door to go in and that untaped the mistletoe. When he comes out and closes the door, the string will release, and the mistletoe will drop. And the prey are caught.” 

“When did you even _do_ that?” Joe questioned, impressed that George had somehow managed to sneak away for long enough to put this into place. “You know, too bad you can’t make a career out of this sort of thing.”

“I only do this for my friends. It’s a noble act. Well... I mean, I wouldn’t _refuse_ money.”

“How kind of you.” Joe said dryly. “But maybe you could go into something clever. Build stuff to solve problems. You like puzzles.” 

“Think I could write this up on my resume? ‘ _Master prankster_.’”

“Fuck off.”

“Maybe something like ‘ _Highly successful coordinator of complicated plots_.’” 

“George, really, shut -”

“No! ‘ _Genius engineer with a kindheart.’_ Isn’t that -” 

“Shut. Up,” Joe interrupted, dragging George around to focus him on the scene at the end of the hallway. 

Any protests died in his throat, and he slapped at Joe’s hands excitedly, as if he wasn’t already watching.

Joe had heard the disbelief from down the hallway, when Lip shut the door behind him and the mistletoe dropped on his head. In their surprise, Lip and Speirs hadn’t heard the way George had chatted on and on, and Joe supposed, he had George to thank for the engineering that unknowingly covered his own noisiness.

Once the shock faded, Lip flicked the mistletoe away and laughed. The discomfort and shyness of being presented with such a tender moment never built between the two. 

Instead, Speirs said something quietly, a whisper just for Lip to hear and stepped in like he’d done probably a thousand times. 

They kissed without worry, hands gently holding to each other. 

It was both insignificant, a throwaway kiss among a million already had, and significant, with never a meaningless moment between them. They kissed like lovers, lacking any timidness while being free from prying eyes.

(Except for Joe and George’s spying, but that was an unknown caveat with little effect on the two.) 

When they parted, Speirs took Lip’s hand in his own, and quietly, George managed, “Of _course._ ”

The details pieced together so perfectly, with their silent deceit so thoughtfully planned. Lip and Speirs’ relationship had been hiding in plain sight, invisible to onlookers, and yet the passion, the gentleness and feelings had always been there. 

Lip never sought out a date because he never _needed_ to. He never worried about being left out because Speirs was always there, and the public affection wasn’t necessary. 

Not to mention, they _lived_ together, for fuck’s sake. 

George seemed to be thinking along the same lines as him, but his tolerance for perceived unfairness was lower (and desperation for sappiness was through the roof). 

“Really?” He came out with, spluttering his way to some sort of a grand reveal. 

He’d stepped into the hallway, and Joe followed, grabbing at his belt loops to yank him back into their hiding place.

Joe wanted to shake him, to make him let the moment pass before making some sort of accusation, but there was never a dull moment with George. 

“My own best friend?” George cried.

He wasn’t met with any sort of anger or upset due to their being intruded upon, just a carefree laugh and Lip squeezing Speirs’ hand. 

Lip waved between them. “Maybe stop jumping into everything head first and take a minute to look around.” 

George’s plan had worked, to an extent. 

It hadn’t begun any new relationship, - except, maybe, between some of their friends - but it had revealed a relationship, regardless. The mission was a success, and yet, George was in the mood to pout. 

He crossed his arms, unsatisfied with Lip’s answer and swayed unsteadily.

“Jesus, we got ‘em, George,” Joe said. “And now, you know a big secret.” 

“Well, not for long,” Speirs input, but his comment went unheard.

George looked up at Joe, like he was the only one who ever said anything that mattered. “Yeah?” 

He nodded, and _God_ , George really had a way of capturing Joe’s whole attention. He was a beckoning light, and no matter what sort of awful plan he dragged Joe into, it never mattered because it was always just about _him_. 

“George,” Lip interrupted, but he sounded far away, from outside this moment. 

“Yeah, what?” George asked quickly, without following the voice away from Joe. 

“Look up.” 

They both knew what was hiding above them, but George stole a quick look away and returned, his usual sunny expression clouded with _something_ , with nervousness or fear or indecisiveness. 

And truthfully, Joe felt the same. 

“It’s not like we have to follow the rules,” Joe pointed out. “It’s just a dumb decoration. Was on sale.” 

A smile quirked on George’s face, and he shook his head. “What kind of losers would we be if we didn’t?” 

Joe held back a comment on his lack of romanticism, and in that silence, George grew impatient. 

“Oh, the hell with this,” he said, closing the space between them, dragging Joe in for a kiss. 

George didn’t stray far once they moved apart. Any sort of hesitation or anxiety had disappeared completely, and he relaxed but didn’t lower his hand. 

“What’s the worst that can happen?” He asked and grinned. 

Joe shook his head, but couldn’t help but smile.

“Just you, me, and some mistletoe.”

**Author's Note:**

> 1\. just had an idea of getting kissed under mistletoe and :( ok shut up dyke
> 
> 2\. ya ya most ships r here i fink but also like. w*bgott got 2 sentences so don't complain and don't expect it again
> 
> 3\. Not representational of the real men. Solely based off the portrayals from the HBO series.
> 
> 4\. Kinda edited. Sometimes unrealistic.
> 
> 5\. Title credit to "Under the Mistletoe" by Sia.
> 
> 6\. Follow me on tumblr @ capnixons !!!


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